


And What I Remember Best is That the Door to Your Room was the Door to Mine

by RubyTuesday5681



Series: Always [1]
Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Autumn, Bittersweet, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, POV Third Person Limited, Poetry, Polyamory, Rating: PG13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyTuesday5681/pseuds/RubyTuesday5681
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard wonders if he and Frank are like a bittersweet poem</p>
            </blockquote>





	And What I Remember Best is That the Door to Your Room was the Door to Mine

**Author's Note:**

> No infidelity takes place in this fic. This is a polyamory story set during New York Comic Con 2012.

New York is great and Gerard has to admit that he’s missed it. He gets into town with some extra time and ends up walking around with Becky for a while, just catching up, talking. He gets hit with a wave of nostalgia when they stop in front of a used bookstore that he’s certain he’s been to with Lindsey before. He only said goodbye to her this morning, but his breath catches and he nearly actually clutches his chest. 

Becky says, “C’mon,” and grabs his hand, dragging him into the store. 

It’s dark and quiet inside, with the same mustiness that Gerard remembers. He and Lindsey spent hours in here one day… he has no idea how long ago that was. He’ll have to ask her if she remembers when he gets home. Wandering aimlessly through the aisles, he stops every now and then to pull something out and flip through it. 

Becky goes straight up to the shop owner, who she apparently knows pretty well, and asks him if he’s held onto anything for her recently. They get involved in a conversation about something or other and Gerard wanders deeper into the store.

As Gerard gets farther toward the back, he can’t help but think about Frank and how much he would love this… all these books - not that Frank doesn’t already have enough books, but Gerard’s never seen Frank turn down an opportunity to acquire more… and he actually _reads_ them. Well, maybe not all of them, but still. 

Gerard had really hoped that Frank would be able to join them today. He’d mentioned it weeks ago but when he reminded Frank, all he got was a vague excuse about something he’d promised the girls he would do with them today. Gerard shrugs and turns a corner into another section of the store. He gives his head a shake and sternly reminds himself that he can’t begrudge Frank spending time with his kids. He can’t. 

For some reason Gerard feels compelled to turn into the poetry aisle. There’s an open box on the floor that hasn’t been unpacked yet. He bends down to rifle through it and finds that it’s all collections by various famous poets. There doesn’t seem to be any cohesive theme tying the writers together. Someone apparently just really loved poetry. Gerard reads the names on the spines and sees Coleridge, Keats, Hughes, Poe, Frost, Dickinson, Thoreau, Yeats, Byron, Bukowski (one of Frank’s favorites), and Silverstein (one of Bandit’s favorites). His hand stops flipping through the books when he gets to a collection of Anne Sexton’s work; Lindsey’s mentioned liking Anne Sexton before. Gerard picks up the volume and weighs it in his hand. It’s small enough. He doesn’t see why he can’t buy it and take it back to her. 

After purchasing the book, Gerard sticks it in his overly-large inside jacket pocket and forgets about it for the rest of the day.

*_*_*

That night, after a far too brief text message exchange with Frank confirming that they _will_ see each other tomorrow night, Gerard lies down on the hotel bed, landing on top of his jacket. That’s when he remembers the book of poetry. He pulls it out and flips through, randomly reading whatever poems he happens to turn to. They’re nice, interesting - some of them vaguely sad, many _very_ sad, and a lot bittersweet. Several of them seem like song lyrics to Gerard. 

The fourth or fifth poem Gerard reads (he isn’t sure, he’s lost count) holds his attention. It’s short like a lot of the poems in the book, and he reads it again immediately and then again after that. He keeps re-reading it until he finally has to make himself close the book and start thinking about actually sleeping, even though his body thinks it’s only nine o’clock. He turns down the corner of the page, though, so that he’ll be able to find it again, and can’t get the poem out of his head all night. He isn’t certain, but he thinks he even dreams about it.

*_*_*

The next day is really, really great, but Gerard is more than ready for some quiet when he finally heads back to his room, his mind immediately switching gears as he thinks about seeing Frank tonight. One night. He really can’t stand it that all the time they could manage to find was one night. But Frank’s busy with his own family and his life in Jersey right now, doing stuff for the house and completely enamored with Miles still being so little. Besides all that, Gerard really wants to get back to LA to spend as much time with Lindsey as possible before she leaves for tour, so… one night. 

Gerard is completely lost in thought and isn’t ready for it at all when he makes the final turn down the corridor his room is in (damn old city hotels like fucking mazes) and looks up to find Frank standing outside his door, waiting for him. Gerard stops short, his breath catching as he takes in the expression in Frank’s eyes, full of heat and want. Frank’s smirking at him and Gerard starts moving again, not even taking the time to get the door open before his mouth is on Frank’s, tasting and savoring, desperate after months without this. 

Gerard doesn’t really notice Frank pulling the key card out of his hand and using it to get the door open because he’s too busy licking and biting at Frank’s neck. He groans in frustration at all of Frank’s movement and pins him against the inside of the door the second it’s closed. He pulls Frank’s collars out of the way and finally, now that Frank is still, latches on good and hard, sucking until Frank starts to whine and buck underneath him. 

Gerard backs off and buries his face in Frank’s neck, breathing in deeply. “You smell so fucking good,” he pants.

Frank shrugs, letting his jacket fall to the floor, and wraps his arms around Gerard’s middle, under his coat. “I smell like babies and dogs.” 

Gerard nods. “Mmmhmm, damn good-smelling man.” 

“Yeah?” Frank lifts Gerard’s face with a finger under his chin. His smirk is matched by one eyebrow slightly raised. 

“Fucking yeah,” Gerard says heartily. “You smell like…” the only word for it that makes sense is, “home.” 

The smirk falls off Frank’s face at that, but he’s not sad or angry. He leans in, resting his forehead against Gerard’s, and whispers, “You smell like that, too, to me.” Gerard isn’t sure why Frank is whispering when they’re alone, but it adds something to the statement. Gerard can’t quite say what, but it isn’t lost even when Frank snorts and says, louder now, “Only thing missing is the smell of cigarettes.”

*_*_*

Two orgasms, and not much more than an hour later, they’re settled together on the bed with room service coffee and sandwiches. Gerard pulls out the book of Anne Sexton poems and hands it to Frank, open to the poem, _I Remember_ , the one that he couldn’t get out of his head. 

“Oh I like this one,” Frank says before he even starts reading. He slurps his coffee as he reads through it quickly and then looks at Gerard questioningly. 

Gerard nods. “Read it again.” 

Frank does. He reads it again and then another time. He sets his coffee down on the nightstand and a tiny line appears between his eyebrows when he looks up at Gerard, concern evident. “It’s a nice poem.” His voice is even, like he doesn’t want to give anything away or make any assumptions. 

Gerard sighs and takes the book from him. He looks down, reading again and smoothing over the page. “It just makes me think of like, well summer, obviously,” he shrugs, “and it made me think about the summer before last and how much fun we had.” He looks up and finds Frank’s intense gaze almost painful. Swallowing, he goes on, “Then I thought back through all our summers touring together and I thought about Warped tour.” He puts his hand gently on Frank’s knee. “I thought about the van.” 

Frank looks down at Gerard’s hand and picks it up after a beat. “Okay, I guess… I mean I get that.” His voice sounds dry and he swallows. “It isn’t-” He shakes his head and scratches at his neck, breathing deeply. Finally, he looks up at Gerard, his eyes red, “That poem, it’s not about us.” His voice comes out stronger as he says it, squeezing Gerard’s hand. 

“No?”

Frank frowns again and doesn’t say anything. He takes the book back from Gerard and reads through the poem again, silently. 

“It doesn’t make you think about all those summers?”

Frank puts his fingers up against Gerard’s mouth. “Shush, Gee.” After a few seconds, Frank lets his fingers fall away from Gerard’s mouth and wraps them around the back of his neck instead. The gesture feels… possessive. Gerard rolls his neck back into it, loving the feel of Frank kneading at the tense muscles with his callused fingers. Eventually Frank speaks. “No, I mean I totally get why it makes you think of that, especially,” he looks right up into Gerard’s eyes, “especially the van, but…” Frank sets the book down gently on the bed and moves the room service tray out from between them, setting it awkwardly on the overflowing nightstand. Then he leans up, both hands wrapped around Gerard’s neck now, and kisses him firmly. “It can’t be about us.” He’s whispering again. “It can’t be, because that poem makes it sound like whatever, or whoever Sexton’s talking about, it’s over right? Isn’t that how the poem sounds to you?”

Gerard nods minutely. “It does.” 

Frank kisses him again, hard. “So it’s not about us, because we aren’t over.”

“No? But-” Frank cuts him off with another kiss, this one deep and searching, Frank’s tongue demanding that Gerard pay attention. Gerard gets lost in it for several long moments, but then pushes away, panting. He reaches up and takes Frank’s hands from around his neck and twines their fingers together. Gerard looks down at Frank’s hands, at all the ink lovingly tattooed there. He rubs his finger over Jamia’s name and smiles because he knows that when Frank loves someone it’s forever. He has to ask, though. “How can you be so sure?”

Frank shrugs like it’s easy; maybe it is. “Because we love each other. We love _being_ together. We love making music together. That isn’t going to be over, not for a long, long time.” He shakes his head again. “And even if the touring part ends because we get too old, that doesn’t mean we’ll be over, Gee.” Frank sits back, looking deeply troubled.

“Sometimes,” Gerard starts. “Sometimes when it gets to be so long without seeing you… without this,” he gestures, moving his hand between them, “I just get nervous. I get sad and-”

“Don’t,” Frank cuts him off. “Just don’t…” he stops, frowning as if he’s looking for words, but eventually just says, “Don’t do that,” before surging up and capturing Gerard’s mouth in his again. Frank’s hands move everywhere over Gerard’s skin, clutching at him desperately. He pushes Gerard down on the bed and plants himself on top, licking down Gerard’s chest and belly and making him forget that he was ever sad.

*_*_*

Frank gets up before Gerard, his phone alarm sounding shrill in the early morning grey that’s just beginning to seep into the room from behind the hotel drapes. He litters Gerard’s back with wet kisses before getting out of bed. Gerard shivers and smiles, blinking his eyes open to stare at Frank’s gorgeous, naked ass as he walks to the bathroom. He hears Frank piss and turn on the shower. Rolling over onto his back, he stretches, yawning as his hand lands on top of the Anne Sexton book that had been hiding somewhere in the covers. Gerard picks it up and flips it open to the _I Remember_ poem and reads again, pondering.

By the first of August  
the invisible beetles began  
to snore and the grass was  
as tough as hemp and was  
no color—no more than  
the sand was a color and  
we had worn our bare feet  
bare since the twentieth  
of June and there were times  
we forgot to wind up your  
alarm clock and some nights  
we took our gin warm and neat  
from old jelly glasses while  
the sun blew out of sight  
like a red picture hat and  
one day I tied my hair back  
with a ribbon and you said  
that I looked almost like  
a puritan lady and what  
I remember best is that  
the door to your room was  
the door to mine. 

Gerard finds himself unconsciously reaching back to touch his hair, trying to remember the last time it was long enough to be pulled back with a ribbon. He hears Frank come out of the bathroom and looks up to find him leaning against the door frame, a towel slung low around his hips. He looks good enough to eat and Gerard wonders how much time they have. 

Gerard beckons Frank closer with a crooked finger. When frank reaches the bed, Gerard’s fingers go straight to tug on Frank’s towel. “How much time do we have?”

“Enough,” Frank says quietly, taking the book out of Gerard’s hand and pushing it off the bed. 

Gerard watches as the book drops softly to the floor and sighs. “I guess it isn’t really about us at all.”

Frank rubs his hand up Gerard’s chest and leans down, saying, “It isn’t,” just before he bites Gerard’s collarbone. Frank gnaws gently for a while before flipping his head up, droplets of water land on Gerard’s chest from his hair. Frank flops down, resting his chin on Gerard’s chest. “Remembering is fine, Gee. I get that. I do that, too, but…” Frank tilts his head to the side. “We can’t stop looking forward. That poem is sad because it’s only about the past.” Frank props himself up on his arms, his face earnest and his eyes searching Gerard’s. “We won’t ever be a sad poem, Gee. I promise.” 

Gerard stares into Frank’s beautiful eyes for a beat and then grabs his face in his hands so hard he thinks it probably hurts, but Frank isn’t complaining. Gerard leans down and kisses him so deeply and so tenderly, he feels like his heart is in his throat. He believes Frank. He always does because Frank never stops believing in them - even when Gerard did, Frank didn’t. 

They kiss and kiss and find that they do have just enough time to make love once more. All the while, Gerard hears Frank’s words in his head promising him that they won’t ever be a sad poem. And Gerard knows it’s true.


End file.
